


Little Noise and Much Wool

by John_Royal



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Anal Sex, Class Differences, Dom/sub, Falling In Love, M/M, Oral Sex, Power Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:53:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25410439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/John_Royal/pseuds/John_Royal
Summary: After a chance meeting, a king and a shepherd learn that they have some extremely compatible interests. They are compelled to explore them, even if some of those interests go against their standing in society.
Relationships: George III of the United Kingdom/Original Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 14





	1. A Chance Meeting

The thing about shearing sheep is that, barring any sheep-related mischief, it is a fairly monotonous task.

I am very good at it, quite possibly the best shearer south of Yorkshire if I do say so myself. 

My family has been raising mainly sheep for generations and we have done very well for ourselves out of it, especially once the monasteries began to lose influence. This means that being an expert shearer is a bit of a point of pride for me. Not to mention that being the best allows me to sit on the shearing bench, cutting only the most valuable wool from the sheep’s flanks. My two less gifted brothers are left on their knees in the grass, stuck with the unenviable task of collecting the rest. It's quite the privileged position to be in if you've got hundreds of the buggers to get through.

Being a big lad, I simply grab the next sheep up, get it on the bench, get the wool off, and then let the others take it.

I'd quite like to think that it's because I'm so nicely in the swing of things that I do not notice the sound of the carriage as it first approaches, then stops. In all honesty, this is only true insofar as being hot, tired, and keen to get through another couple of sheep before breaking for the day counts as being in the swing of things.

My brothers, however, do take note of the new arrival.

"Oi, you lazy sods! Come and get her already," I bark, gesturing to the animal whose head is presently resting on my thigh. It has the desired effect of getting my brothers moving, but before they pick up the sheep one of them points over my shoulder.

Half-suspecting this to be some kind of trick, I warily glance behind me and feel my eyebrows raise when my gaze lands on a nice-looking carriage. Its sole occupant appears to be staring at us. I slowly rise from the bench, stretch and wipe at least some of the sweat off my face before I take off my hat and walk towards the carriage. Clearly my craven excuses for brothers have chosen me to go check on the nob. Perhaps he's lost or something.

"Afternoon, good sir! Anything I can help you with?" I call out as I halfheartedly jog over, for the moment opting to ignore the staring man inside the carriage in favour of addressing his driver. Usually the safest, when it comes to nobs. I think. Haven't exactly encountered many, but you hear things.

The driver gets no chance to reply, as the nob is surprisingly not above speaking to the likes of me. "Those are some very impressive shearing skills, my good man."

"Oh, thank you, sir!" I finally look directly at him, both grateful for the compliment and slightly abashed at having thought poorly of him without reason. Ironically, the very thing I was expecting him to do. "I've had a lot of practice."

He's a good-looking man, too. Auburn-haired. Kind, if rather intense, blue eyes. Roughly my age, I'd imagine, perhaps a little younger. Not to mention full of surprises, as he opens the carriage door and hops out to join me at the fence. He's taller than I'd expected, though I have a good couple of inches over him in height and a fair few more in the shoulders. 

He looks at the flock like a man who both knows his sheep and likes what he sees, then back at me. "Are these all yours?"

"My family's, yes. We have a few more different kinds, but these Longwools were due for a shear. Have to time it right, you know how it is," I explain and he nods. I believe the nod, too.

I gesture at my brothers to be on their way and they immediately dash off. Heavens know what they're going to tell everyone. Not a lot of excitement around these parts and me chatting it up with a man in a fancy carriage is bound to be blown up into an event that'll give the tavern something to chat about for a week. Could be a good thing, I suppose, that tale of the gander chasing young William was wearing rather thin by this point.

As it turns out, the man does know a lot about sheep. More than I do myself, in some respects, though I do feel I have the upper hand when it comes to more practical matters. Which is good, because he has a seemingly endless amount of questions. He speaks with almost frightening enthusiasm and at a speed and vocabulary that I occasionally find it difficult to keep up with. It's not until midway through the conversation that we learn each other's name.

"Well, George, we're beginning to lose the light, but if you'd like to have a go... they're really not too much trouble once you get them on their side." I shoot him a grin, but find my bluff soundly called when after a moment's thought he places one well-booted foot on the fence and reaches out to me so I can help him over.

Not one to back down from a challenge myself, I lead him to the shearing bench. "Just straddle the narrow end right there and let me grab you one."

Of course, I could have had him help with this as well, but I feel compelled to show off a little as I grab the most docile sheep I can spot at short notice and swiftly lay her on her side before him. "Now you just hold her here, I find it easiest to put their head on my thigh, but just see how it's most comfortable for you," I instruct as I guide his hand. "Great. Now let me get in behind you. Sorry if it's a bit tight, not normally a two-man seat, this."

I chuckle as I move to sit behind him, but fall silent when he scoots back a little to lean more against me. "And now?" he asks, glancing back at me.

"Right, yeah." I swallow, but do not move away. He smells nice. "So, what we're after here is this nice wool on the side, yes? Here, let me get it started." I swiftly make the first few cuts before offering him the shears. "Now you'll need to keep the skin nice and tight with your one hand, then pass the blades as close as possible to the skin. It should glide through nice and easy. One smooth motion. That's it. You're doing really well."

We laugh our way through the shearing, with me occasionally reaching around him and taking over so it doesn't take too long. He's not bad for a beginner, only shearing a little high every now and again. Not to mention, he listens to my instructions surprisingly well, seemingly quite eager to learn. We work well together, though in closer proximity than strictly required. His driver seems to have made it a priority not to notice us, but I opt not to worry about that.

"And there we are! Good job, George!" I give him a congratulatory pat on the thigh as the sheep wanders off, now sans a fair bit of wool. I make a mental note to clean her up later.

He half-turns, smiling from ear to ear. "Well, I am quite certain most of the credit goes to you. Nonetheless, I am quite interested in purchasing this particular fleece as a bit of a trophy."

I shrug, then nod. "Sure, if you want. It's just raw wool at the moment." With not inconsiderable reluctance, I get up from behind him and gather up the wool before taking both it and him back to the carriage. He produces a pouch and pays me. Too much, but he insists and I somehow feel it better not to argue.

"That was a very nice experience," he tells me as I lend him a hand back into the carriage. "Thank you."

Suddenly, I feel his lips brush against my own. The next thing I know, he has closed the door and I'm staring at the back of the carriage as it moves on along the road.

"You're... welcome?" I mutter into the dimming light of the evening.

It's a few days after my encounter with George, by now already banished into that secret corner of the mind where many what if-scenarios are kept and revisited on lonely nights, that one of my friends points out the announcement for a royal sheep-shearing competition. The event being relatively close by and only a week away already has me feeling fairly confident. A few pints of cider later, the whole village is convinced that I'm an absolute shoe-in for the win. It's probably the peer pressure that convinces my father to let me take part, though I'm certain the promised prize money helps as well.


	2. The Night Before

I spend the bulk of the week training. Competition shearing is a little different from the system we use at the farm, mainly because I have to shear the whole sheep by myself rather than just get the best wool off and leave the scraps for the others. Even with the additional work, I can pretty reliably average somewhere around the three-and-a-half-minute mark per sheep. There isn't another person in the village who can touch that time, so I'm feeling pretty confident when I turn up in town the night before the event, my small entourage in tow. 

We book ourselves into a decent inn for the night and already I get to meet a few of my fellow contestants. In the spirit of friendly competition, we soon find ourselves plied with many a free drink, laughing and chatting while our friends talk us up at a seemingly ever-increasing volume. While vaguely aware that I might regret it in the morning, the merriment is hard to resist and quite frankly too much fun to bother resisting too much, and before long I find myself pleasantly into my cups.

I'm not entirely certain of the time, but it's dark when I head into the alleyway around the side of the inn. Scarcely have I finished my business when I notice a figure approaching me with purposeful, measured steps. I squint into the darkness, then laugh as I recognise the man. "George! Have I made you into a shearing enthusiast?"

"Shhh!" He closes the distance between us swiftly and I cannot help but chuckle as he honest-to-God puts his finger against my lips. "Not so loud."

"Or what? You're going to kiss me and run away again?" I cock my head and, emboldened by both the drink and a solid night of friends telling myself and others how amazing I am, use my tongue to briefly draw his finger between my lips. Even in the dark I can see him flush as his eyes widen almost comically. The moment he opens his mouth to gasp I am on him, pushing him against the wall as I thrust my tongue into his mouth. It would seem that fortune does indeed favour the brave! He kisses me back, panting by the time I break away to grin at him. "I'm not letting you get away this time."

"You're drunk," he whispers, pressing his body closer to mine.

"Only a little," I admit, grinding against him.

"Not here?" His eyes are pleading and I nod.

I grab George firmly by the arm and lead him around back, where I know the stables should be empty. I close the doors behind us and light a lantern so we won't be fumbling in the dark. There's something akin to adoration writ large upon his face and it sends a shiver down my spine. 

"So, this is what you like then, hm? Makes me wish I'd bent you over my shearing bench the first time around," I growl as I advance on him, backing him into the nearest clean stall. "Get on your knees."

He drops to his knees instantly and, as I undo my breeches, I find myself already hard. I've had few tumbles in the hay before, but nothing quite like this and the sense of power is thrilling. "Is this what you want?" I demand, grasping my erection.

The reply is instantaneous. "Yes, sir."

Nobody's ever called me that before and if the wave of lust that crashes through my body is any indication, that may well be a good thing. Next thing I know, I've got a hand twisted in the hair at the nape of George's neck and my dick is engulfed in his mouth. I can hear him struggle a little, but if the eager way he's grasping onto my buttocks is any indication I do not need to feel guilty about enjoying the sound. "That's it. Good boy."

Those pretty eyes turn up to look at me with pure delight as I rock my hips, grunting out praise like it's second nature. "That's right. You get that nice and wet." I cannot help the slow, lecherous grin that slowly makes its way onto my face as I lock our gazes. "For your own good."

At that, he breathes in sharply through his nose and suddenly doubles down on his efforts. He knows exactly what it is I'm planning to do to him and the eagerness it inspires is thrilling. "Yes, that's good. Good boy. Now turn around and bend over. Show me that sweet arse of yours."

He doesn't need telling twice and I chuckle. "So obedient."

I see him shiver slightly at the compliment. Whatever dark part of me is currently reigning is swells with pride and I confidently step up behind him as he clutches the wooden side partition of the stall. "Do you want me to fuck you?" I whisper into his ear as I lean over him. He moans, then nods. Very nice, but not quite good enough. I nip at his earlobe, though only lightly. "Then ask me nicely," I hiss.

He stiffens and for a half a breath I wonder if I've pushed too far, but then he releases a shuddering sigh and even from behind I can see him relax. "Please, sir. Please take me!"

All the angels in Heaven could sing into my ears and the sound would be no sweeter. I half-bite back a possessive growl as I thrust into him, only barely managing to give him time to adjust before I pick up a merciless rhythm. The stable fills with the barely contained sounds of our pleasure as he urges me on, nostrils flaring as I take him for all that I'm worth. I find myself doing things I'd previously only ever imagined, wrapping my hand around his throat and giving him a few sound smacks on the bottom for good measure. George has somehow found a way to brace himself with a single arm, frantically using the other to grant himself even more pleasure.

For a little while time becomes quite meaningless, but then sudden pleasure such as I've never known before rips through my body. Driven by some primal urge to possess and mark I thrust deep inside and sink my teeth into the soft skin just above his clavicle, growling in triumph. My partner seems to appreciate this display of ownership, as I suddenly feel him shuddering to a climax beneath me, mewling with delight.

I stumble a little as I pull back, but George appears near-boneless and in spite of my protesting muscles I lift him, if only long enough to drop both of us safely into the straw. I hold him against me, lightly stroking along his spine as we both catch our breath and come back to earth. He's the first to recover and I smile as I feel his lips against mine. "You're not going to rush off again, are you?"

"Rush?" he chuckles. "No, not rush." He settles against me, affectionally rubbing his cheek against my chest. "Though I will need to leave in a little bit."

"Really?" I make a petulant little noise and wrap my arms a little more tightly around him, which draws a laugh. "I'm afraid so, though I must admit that this is very nice," he insists.

"Very nice indeed." I nuzzle his hair a little. It feels nice to lay together like this, especially considering how rough - if pleasurable - our encounter has been so far. The night's drinking and pleasant afterglow are beginning to take their toll on me and I cannot stifle a yawn, which makes George chuckle again.

"And you need to go get some sleep if you're to win the competition tomorrow... I do presume that that's why you're here?" At my nod, he sits up. I offer only token resistance before allowing him to slip out of my arms. "Good. I'll be watching. Win for me?"

I shoot him a sly grin and don't bother to get up yet in favour of watching him straighten out his clothing. "Will the reward be anything like this?"

He makes a point of theatrically looking left and right before leaning down towards me. "Well, I have heard rumour that the winner will offered a position in London. Which is where I live. So yes. This and then some."

"Then I'll win." I smile and steal another kiss before letting him disappear into the night once again.


	3. The Shearing Competition

There's an odd complexity to simultaneously being both shocked and utterly unsurprised.

After a morning of feeling invincible, only the straw in my clothing when I woke up a physical reminder of what had happened the night before, I am completely floored when I recognise the man announced by the royal fanfare as the King. However, what with kings supposedly being pretty amazing and George having thoroughly amazed me just last night, I cannot say I am utterly surprised. If anyone I'd ever encountered in my life had to be a king, it makes a strange amount of sense for it to be him.

Then, as the crowd cheers, there's the other feeling. They have no idea. They don't know the things I've done with that man, mere hours ago. They have no idea that if you'd take off those impeccable clothes, you'd find the impression of my teeth in his skin. It's a somewhat dark feeling, but not unpleasant. Like being in on a huge joke.

For a moment his eyes meet mine and I cannot help but grin as he looks away. I grab my shears and wait for the signal. After all, I still have a job to do.

I finish a full sheep ahead of my nearest competitor.

After some obligatory congratulations from the crowd, I find myself ushered towards the stage. A short official-looking man hops alongside me, making some strange attempt to whisper in my ear in spite of his utter inability to reach it. "Start with Your Majesty, after that Sire will do!"

I see George's eyes widen as I approach him and for a moment it's as if the world stills around us, then I shoot him a conspiratorial grin and drop into a bow that's only slightly too deep. "Your Majesty."

The world snaps back into focus. We slog our way through the prize ceremony with minimal difficulty, much to our credit if he feels the slow and deep burn of desire anywhere near as keenly as I do. Soon there is music, celebration, a pair of gilded shears, and a short conversation with my father to secure my appointment as keeper of the royal flock at Kew. It's a queer feeling. I could seize control at any moment if I so wished, but yet am completely and utterly willing to be swept up into something mad... and George is a force of nature.

It's not until I somehow find myself sitting in lush upholstery, in a carriage bound for London, that I spread out my arms, palms out, and shake my head in sheer amazement at the man, the king, sitting across from me.

"Are you mad at me?" He sounds so small! Part of me wants desperately to hold and comfort him, but all I can do is laugh.

He giggles slightly, for all his finery looking incredibly uncertain. I take pity and beckon him over. "No, George. I am not mad at you."

As he shifts around to sit beside me, I draw the carriage's small curtains. "I am not mad at you," I continue. "For not telling me that you are the king. Nor am I mad at you for deliberately springing that knowledge on me in public." Here, he opens his mouth, but I lift a finger to silence him for the moment. "If you, and I'm not saying that you did, after meeting me that first time, went through the trouble of setting up a whole shearing competition as part of an elaborate ploy to invite me home with you... that's honestly a little strange, but also sweet enough not to make me mad."

I'm not certain his lack of reply should be considered a confession, but he does seem awfully contented when he leans against me. "I gave you coins with my face on them."

"What do you mean?" I turn my head to look at him, confused.

"That first time we met. I paid you for the wool, some of those coins had my face on them. You could have figured it out then." I realise he's teasing me mere moments before I rise to the bait.

"Yes," I laugh. "They carry such a remarkable likeness! Is that really the defence you want to go with, Your Majesty?"

My barb hits true, and he bristles. "Don't call me that."

The annoyance feels real, but I persist. "Others do." No reply. "I wonder if they'd keep doing that."

Wide blue eyes snap towards mine. "What do you mean?"

Looks like I win this round. I whisper: "If they knew how majestic you look on your knees. I've never seen anyone look so regal with a cock in his mouth." I slide my arm over and clasp my hand around the back of his neck.

He looks at me again, his pupils visibly dilated now even in the small amount of light that still filters into the carriage. When I smile, he smiles back and licks his lips as if to wet them. I push. "In fact, I could do with reminding of that myself."

In spite of his eagerness, I maintain a secure grip on George's neck as he moves down to take me into his mouth. It's not easy to keep at least somewhat quiet as he lavishes attention on me, but I remain keenly aware of just how close the footmen could be. "That's it. Take your time. Very good." My voice barely raises above a murmur, but I can see the words taking effect on him.

I slowly allow myself to relax as pleasure drowns out a lot of the day's strangeness. 

My hand shifts from George's neck and I find myself gently petting him before I tangle it in his hair and give him something to swallow.

Afterwards, he moves to sit against me once more. "Nobody's ever treated me like this before," he confesses, seemingly unwilling to meet my eye.

For a moment I consider an empty boast, but then opt for honesty as I curl a finger under his chin to make him look at me. "I've never treated anyone this way." A beat. "I enjoy it."

He nods, lets out a breath he probably didn't know he was holding. "Me too."

For a moment, I think that's going to be the extent of whatever this talk is supposed to be. Perhaps it is, but that doesn't stop George from suddenly speaking a mile a minute. It reminds me of that first time we talked by the field, though this time the onslaught of information relates to our destination rather than sheep. It's oddly endearing, particularly since it feels as if he's rehearsed certain parts of it. I listen patiently, only interrupting every now and again to clarify details that he seems to take completely for granted. For the most part, I am contented to simply sit back and hold him until the subject becomes just a little too foreign for me to keep up with. "Kangooroos? Now you're just making things up."

He laughs at that. "It's kangaroos and you'll see them tomorrow. They're rather a favourite of mine, I'll have you know."

"I'm sure they'll be a delight."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For all the historical liberties I'm taking... the kangaroo-thing? 100% true. George III really had kangaroos at Kew.


	4. Home Advantage

Kangaroos, as it turns out, are not a delight.

George insists that they are. Frequently and with seemingly never-ending enthusiasm, whenever we walk the grounds together, which has become something of a ritual by this point.

He's cancelled the last few. Affairs of state, which I can respect, but the mood around the great house is souring.

"It's the colonies," the head cook announces to the building at large as she sets a rather generous plate of food down in front of me. There's a general murmur of agreement. "They're doing His Majesty's poor head in, talking of revolutions and causing no end of trouble!" Another murmur, a little louder now. The kitchens are separated from the main house, which seems to embolden everyone on staff to speak their minds. "They should be thanking him for all he's doing for them, ungrateful bastards," one of the garden staff pipes up. "He's a good king!" That draws a few "Hear hear!"'s and general nodding.

"I only wish there was some way to take his mind off all of their nonsense for a while," the cook continues. "I'm sure things would run a lot more smoothly if only he'd get a chance to relax!"

Suddenly, with all-consuming clarity, I hear what is actually being said. I look down at the overly elaborate plate of food I've been picking at, but don't raise my gaze for fear of meeting anyone's eye. I know they're all on me nonetheless. There's unlikely to be much of anyone left in the house. So, this is what it's come to, then? Almost imperceptibly, I nod.

There are a few moments of silence, but then conversation picks back up around me with the air of people who are very desperate to make it clear that absolutely nothing out of the ordinary has been said.

I finish my dinner before I pick up the plate that has mysteriously appeared at my elbow. I consider walking through the gardens, but then opt for the serving tunnel that leads directly from the kitchens to the main house. I walk along at a brisk pace, swallowing down my own reservations as I lay out the rough framework of a plan inside my mind. This won't work if I don't commit to my part.

I'm glad to find George in his work chamber towards the back of the house. Considering the circumstances in the kitchen, I do not worry much for our privacy, but I'm feeling distinctly keen and any advantage is welcome. 

"I've brought some food," I announce as I step inside, locking the door behind me. George barely glances up from the letter in his hand as I set down the plate. Well, that just won't do. 

I reach out and snatch the letter out of his hand, forcefully shoving him back into his seat with my free hand when he attempts to rise up. "Sit down, George," I reprimand sternly before giving the letter a cursory glance. Ridiculous loopy handwriting greets me. "Who the devil is this Seabury and why is he so obsessed with your grace?" I pick out a few particularly choice examples and laugh. "Is this what you've been up to? Jerking off to love letters from a pen pal?"

That gets his attention. Forcing the momentum, I bodily haul George to his feet as I kick the chair aside. I meet his eyes and smile when I see the spark of realisation as I push him against the desk. "Well?" I demand, already busying my fingers with the front of his breeches.

"He does write a lot, sir." Suddenly, the world clicks into place.

"To you?" 

A nod. 

"And do you write back?"

A shake of the head.

"Well, that's just downright impolite! He seems very taken with you. Perhaps I should help you with a first draft." I grasp his rapidly growing erection. "Would you like that?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Let's see... dear Whatever-his-first-name-is," I begin, only to be interrupted.

"It's Samuel."

"I don't care." I tighten my grip a little, eliciting a little sound of delighted comprehension as I start moving my hand.

"Dear Samuel," I begin again, opting to overlook the all too smug look on George's face. "Thank you for writing ever so many letters, your praise is as kind as it is inaccurate. Far away as you are, it may have escaped your notice that grace is a quality ill-ascribed to a man who will drop to all fours at a mere command. You would have struggled to describe my presence in such lofty terms, had you ever seen how small I look, clutching at my desk while Sir plays with my cock." George whimpers and I bark a laugh. "Do you think Samuel would like to know that, George?"

I step in closer, nuzzle his neck and throat. "Perhaps your next portrait should let them all know you a little better. I'm sure we can commission someone to capture just how graceful you look drooling all over my cock."

As anticipated, George's knees buckle almost reflexively, but I hold him firm upright, chuckling to myself. "See? So eager."

I lean in for a long, slow kiss. "Such a good boy. You deserve a reward." I relish the taste of his mouth for a few moments longer, then slowly sink to my knees to taste elsewhere.

He doesn't last long, but I don't need him to. George's somewhat hazy post-orgasmic gaze follows me as I stand up. I see his eyes widen as I grab the letter and proceed to spit a glob of mixed semen and saliva all over it.

"Send that as a reply. If you serve them half as well as you serve me, they'll be back."


End file.
